The Cold, Hard Truth About Fairy Tales
by MARTYR
Summary: Vash sheds a little light on what life was like -before- the gun-toting priest stepped into his life... The sequel to "Suffering in Silence". (1st-person Vash, PLEASE R&R!)


Hello, once again. The long-awaited cough cough sequel to 'Suffering in Silence' is finally up and running! This is a one-shot; Vash's point-of-view. Have fun and remember to review!  
  
Warning: Implied shounen-ai, language  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own no Trigun, no way, no how...

**"Sinful" – The Cold, Hard Truth About Fairy Tales**

...'Harsh' is an understatement, in this case. He told me how he felt, that was all. He told me what was in his heart, and for the first time, I clearly heard the smallest of quivers in his naturally stable, gruff voice. He came into my room, sat me down, and had the balls to tell me that he loved me - in a very 'sinful' way, according to his deity.  
  
He was a preacher, and that's how he described it: Sinful.  
  
Is that what I was? Is that how he saw me; a little devil with horns and a pitchfork, growing into a more and more abhorring beast with each encounter? Perhaps it was just an exaggeration on his part, somewhat of a mental assurance of his loyalty to his god.  
  
I guess that's all good and well, for his profession quite required that cynical mindset. I thought that this game of cat-and-mouse would have dragged on for at least a few more months.  
  
The priest, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, and I... we were definitely what you would call a 'dynamic duo' with the longest history of catastrophic, heart-rending, mind-blowing adventures anyone had ever seen. We must've set the records for how many times you could come with a tenth of an inch from death itself.  
  
And with each bullet that sped our way, each inconceivable set-back that left us stranded together in some rickety, crumbling hotel, I think... I think we both began to adapt to the other's life. Almost understand it. Almost enjoy it. It was very quiet, very gradual, but something was there. Masked, but clear to see, once you cleared the passage of all the pointless questions and emotions.  
  
I wasn't ready for him to tell me, for him to even begin to question himself. I hadn't been prepared. I knew I wanted to hear these words that would oh-so-consequently conclude our days together, but his timing was _way_ off... like, in Left Field.  
  
You know what they say about Priests and Timing...  
  
Aha.  
  
But, alas, it was not meant to be, as much as I wished for it. I am Vash the Stampede, the Sixty-Billion Double-Dollar Man. I am a feared outlaw, wielding not only a gun, but a bloody reputation that is not mine alone... and from what I cannot run from, I destroy, in some way or another; purposefully or by some cataclysmic fluke. I cannot be around others. It is by this title, by this existence, that I am bound.  
  
I would only end up hurting him. A bitter, yet forgiving soul such as his cannot exist entangled in the grind-your-teeth-and-bear-it lifestyle I am forced to uphold. I was his friend; his companion. And that's as far as it could possibly go.  
  
So when the harshness of reality had slapped me square in the back of the head (this time, harder than usual. Reality can be spiteful that way.), I came to believe that the entire world had turned upside down. Or perhaps a saddened gaze into a loveless future, thus his confession...? Or maybe I was just crazy.  
  
I had to end it.  
  
I did the only thing I could.  
  
...Funny how irony works; cruel and cold, always basking in the tears and the blood and the shattered glass and the stinging pain of rejection and utter hopelessness; soaking it up like sunshine. What a joy it would be, to be able to live off of the pain of others, to be alienated from the emotion called 'guilt'.  
  
I thought everything about him was perfect in any manner of speaking. For the months I spent with him were those of a bittersweet fairy tale, with all the action, suspense, and somewhat tender moments that one such fairy tale would require.  
  
There were no fairies with brightly shining wings; no talking dog monsters; no friendly giants and absolutely NO little old women who lived in shoes. If there were, I must have missed them somehow...  
  
But I didn't need fairies or talking dogs or friendly giants, and I _especially_ didn't need little old women who lived in shoes. In fact, I rather despise glittery magic shit like that. I just wanted a fairy tale... or, perhaps, someone to share this empty existence of mine with. That, in itself, would be my perfect fairy tale.  
  
And thus, it was bestowed upon me... my fairy tale. I don't know how or why or by what lord of lords had given me this cork to plug up the gaping hole in my heart, but he was a good god indeed. He carried me through the worst months of my life, just by giving me the simplest of gifts...  
  
Nicholas D. Wolfwood; he was no Prince Charming, with his crippled little cigarette stubs and his ability to down several bottles of beer a minute without vomiting, but I knew I would just trip, fall, miss the floor, and fly whenever he turned to me with that long, lazy grin of his.  
  
And those cold, gray eyes of his that I knew were analyzing and probing every little aspect of me whenever they could, like I was some gutted fish in a biology lab. He had all the shiny little instruments needed to dissect and study every little detail of my life I had to offer.  
  
But our story was one of sleepless nights and gruesome, merciless monotony, when it all boiled down to it. After a long while, the nifty gun fights and melodramatic arguments just didn't cut it... My bittersweet fairy tale was very abruptly turning into one of those crappy soap operas with the really bad actors who think they have to exaggerate every line like they're dying or something.  
  
"I'm in love with you, Vash."  
  
Bad actors. Bad stage props. Bad script. Bad plot. Bad... everything.  
  
Good delivery, though. He really had me going there, for the few seconds it took me to realize that this could never work. There was something there, something in his voice that made me want to believe him, made me want to crawl under the bed and hide like a little kid during a thunder storm until he came looking for me...  
  
Helpless.  
  
Drowning.  
  
Despair...  
  
My perfect little music box fairy tale had at long last crumbled around me with just six words, and the wooden table before me was my only support. If I lost my cool and let my chin slip off of my hand in a moment of raw guilt (or if my palms were just wet with nerves), not only would I look like a complete jackass, but I would undoubtedly tumble through a strategically placed hole in the floor, and drift off into a cold, isolated abyss I was only _too_ familiar with.  
  
My central nervous system shut down, and I went into Auto Chicken-Shit Mode. I very solemnly began spewing all this pointless garbage about coming to terms with my past that I always used to get out of a sticky situation.  
  
My bright aqua eyes, purposely free of the orange-tinted glasses I had grown accustomed to, shamefully darted away from the look in his cold gray eyes, settling themselves on the floor. I knew that if I chanced a look into his face, I would either see something murderous or something suicidal in his eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
With those two words, I unofficially dubbed myself The Biggest Chicken-Shit Idiot Moron Who The Hell Do You Think You Are After All These Months Of Waiting You Stupid Bastard Bugger Hellbeast, and was more than compliant with the title. I deserved it. Oh, I deserved every bit of torture I received, and quietly suffered through the awkward silence of the moment. I knew in his Mind's Eye, the young priest was shrugging off his Christian ways and gunning me down with every type of machinery possible.  
  
I came to just long enough to catch a glimpse of his heel disappearing through the door. It creaked shut, and I found myself sitting there like I had nothing on my mind worth talking about. That was partially true. That being, too many jumbled rings and knots and flat lines of half-hearted confessions, faint whispers of his own voice, questions and doubts and random song lyrics and good heavenly god, Vash, you're so stupid!  
  
Is this what I'll have to live with? Not realizing it at the time, I had tumbled into the same cold, isolated abyss I had feared long, long ago. When I spotted him in the desert, metal buckles twinkling under the Twin Suns, I had set everything into effect.  
  
If only I had been stronger... I would have not closed my heart to him. One who is afraid of love is afraid of life, or so I hear. And one who is afraid of life is already a third of the way dead.  
  
So that's it. I must be dead.  
  
But I already knew that.  
  
Ah, the gentle ravings of a madman. I have lived a hundred years, and will live a hundred more, and through the constant wave of impressions left upon this tender heart of mine, none shall be deeper than the one left by the smoking, drinking, gun-toting priest named Nicholas D. Wolfwood.


End file.
